


One Night In Wonsan

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Political RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - No COVID, Cigarettes, Cultural Differences, DPRK, Drinkng, Eventual Smut, F/M, History, Kidnapping, Kim Family History, Mildly Dubious Consent, North Korea, Politics, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow To Update, Smoking, Stockholm Syndrome?, Tourism, Tourist Reader, hennessey, not crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: You are a curious visitor to the glorious Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.One evening, you are caught skulking around a train-yard near Wonsan after sneaking off from your group... however, this is noordinarytrain-yard.What does the young Marshal do with silly tourist girls who get dumped at his feet, anyway?
Relationships: Kim Jong-un/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 11





	1. Calm Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes enormous liberties with regard to Kim’s command of the English language. Of course, you could pretend that Reader is fluent in Korean, and that _that’s_ what they’re speaking... but, nothing about this syntax is remotely Korean.
> 
> I’m aware of the fact that the audience for this fic is tiny, and that there’s likely no appetite for this sort of thing as far as most folks are concerned. But, the DPRK is an interesting place, and I’ll likely never get to visit it before something dramatic comes along to change it. I’ve always fantasized about going to see it; this is essentially that fantasy taken to its most ridiculous conclusion.
> 
> When this story is finally finished, I’ll try to include a complete bibliography so that if you’re as morbidly fascinated by this place as I am, you’ll be able to find out more about it. There are countless books and documentaries from a wide range of viewpoints, and every one of them is weird and wonderful in its own way.
> 
> For now, I’ll recommend ‘See You Again In Pyongyang’ off the top of my head, because if you’re into this kinda thing, it truly is a rollicking adventure from start to finish. Also, ‘Nothing To Envy’ by Barbara Demick has a very interesting range of perspectives and some solid history, too.
> 
> Enjoy the Marshal, folks.

“So— you thought I was ‘sick’, did you?”

“I-I— I heard that you—”

“Heard that I...?”

“W-Well... t-that—”

 _”Relax._ Did you think that I would go to the trouble of having you brought to my private quarters if all I wanted was to kill you?” 

This had been a mistake, you thought. A horrific mistake. All you’d wanted was to snap a few (admittedly illicit) photos: You had been _so curious_ when your guide had said that you were stopping near Wonsan; how could you have been expected _not_ to sneak around the trains? They weren’t just any trains, after all— any one of those engines could very well have been the one favoured by the Marshal Kim Jong-un himself.

You’d heard that he was being kept here because he was sick... but, presently, the grandson of the Eternal President did not look to you to be at all ‘sick’.

“N-no,” you said. “I-I don’t s-suppose y-you would, M-Marshal.”

“‘Marshal’?” he asked. Then, he added, “I am aware of the fact that most foreign tourists do _not_ know to address me by my proper title.” He stepped toward where you were seated on the carpeted floor; took a drag off of a fresh-looking cigarette he held tightly between his fingers. “Who advised you?”

You could have sworn he sounded pleased; however, you were still terrified. This was Kim Jong-un, after all— the leader of the Democratic People’s Republic Of Korea. All anybody such as yourself could possibly have known of him were his eccentricities, and apparent propensity toward having calamitous temper tantrums (rumour had it that he’d killed his own uncle with a rocket, in fact).

At his query, you could only continue to stammer. No one had advised you as to how Kim should be addressed prior to your being dragged into his compound and dumped at his feet: That particular action had been taken mostly silently. You’d already known what to call the Marshal simply because you had always been fascinated by him, his family, and his country too. When you had looked at your bank account one day and noticed that you’d finally amassed enough currency to take an all-inclusive, highly-restricted tour of the DPRK, you had jumped at the chance. Visiting North Korea, you thought, would be a strange (if morbid) dream-come-true.

You must have been thinking along similar lines when you’d decided to sneak off and check out the trains earlier this evening... although, of course, you were now beginning to regret having made that choice.

Despite your own odd fascination with both the man himself and the country he ruled, the Marshal appeared every bit as intimidating to you right now as he must have seemed to his own people. He wasn’t tall, but he didn’t have to be— in spite of his lack of height, he seemed incredibly imposing to you. Between his large build and the finely-tailored Mao-style suit in which he was currently clad, he exuded a distinct severity which made you wary of drawing his ire.

“S-Sir, I was o-only—”

 _”Relax!”_ he scolded you once again. “You don’t need to be so nervous around me.” He took another drag off of his smoke; almost looked to smile. He was standing closely enough to be staring right down his nose at you, now. You glanced between his shoes (how were they _that_ shiny?) and his face; tried very hard to stop trembling. 

Did he really expect you not to be nervous near him?

“I’m sorry, Marshal,” you said, attempting to project a steady voice. “I was separated from my group, and—”

He laughed sharply, interrupting you. 

“‘Separated’?” he asked. He sounded quite skeptical.

“S-separated,” you confirmed, rather dishonestly.

He shook his head, and looked you straight in the eye from his standing position. His odd little smile did not leave his face. After blowing a thick plume of smoke out above your head, he informed you, “I don’t believe that.”

You supposed he wouldn’t have.

Unfortunately, you went back to stammering.

 _”Stand up,”_ he commanded, and you obeyed hastily. He appeared to be becoming frustrated with your uneasiness. You wished you weren’t so nervous, but... he was a _dictator._ “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he chided. “I can assure you— it’s only me.”

It was funny that he should mention ghosts: He _did_ bear more than a passing resemblance to his own grandfather, Kim Il-sung. With as much composure as you could muster, you told him that you thought so; followed by, “I only wanted to see your train,” which was at least half-honest.

He laughed at you again; turned from you so that he could put out his cigarette in an ashtray set on a nearby table.

“I don’t think I’ll be showing you my train,” he said as he met your gaze once more. _”But,_ it would certainly be a lot easier to talk to you if you would calm yourself.” His little smile spread. Talk to you about _what?_ , you wondered. Before you could voice your curiosity, however, he asked you quite unexpectedly, “Do you know what helps _me_ stay calm?”

“N-no, Sir.”

The smile turned into a grin. _”Cognac,”_ he told you. “Would you like some Hennessy?”

“...W-What?”

“A drink— would a drink make it easier for you to speak to me?”

You supposed it would. You nodded, and the Marshal curtly returned your gesture. He pulled a sleek cellular phone from out the pocket of that impeccably-tailored, distinctly communist-style suit, and appeared to tap out a few words. 

When he looked up from his screen, he informed you, “It should be here soon. Until then— shall we sit together?” and he motioned across to the other side of the space (you now recognized it as something akin to a hotel room— an especially posh one, in fact), where there were two plush-looking armchairs set up on either side of a small, ornate wooden table.

You looked around yourself, and then at Kim. After that— having fully discerned the reality of your situation— you nodded once again and acquiesced; followed him over to the sitting area.

When he sat down with you, he did so heavily; however, he wasted little time in lighting another cigarette, and leaning forward to examine you. 

Curious as to why you were here as opposed to in jail (along with wondering what the Marshal could possibly want with you), you studied him in return; all the time trying to make it look as though you weren’t. 

You hoped, now, that the cognac would come quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Around the time I first posted this, there were rumours swirling around that Kim’s health was rapidly declining and that he might soon die. The rumours turned out to be largely false. I thought it was a cute premise with which to kick off the story back then, and... I still do lol. :P


	2. An Antique

The drinks did, in fact, arrive in short time. You’d never tried Henessey XO before— frankly, it was well outside of your price-range. You tried not to let that show as you sipped it; however, the expression on your face must have betrayed your inexperience to your host.

“Is the cognac acceptable?” asked Kim with a knowing smile. He’d come back to sit with you after retrieving your refreshments from the door. You didn’t see who’d brought them; whomever had come with the tray had stayed outside of the room. You had no idea just how many people knew of your presence here right now; you could only guess that the number was relatively small— perhaps only the men who had brought you, and Kim himself. 

You weren’t sure whether that should have reassured you, or made you more nervous.

“It’s incredible,” you admitted as you swallowed your first sip, because what would have been the point in lying to the Marshal?

“I am _very_ happy to hear that,” he told you. He was smiling, but there was a certain curiosity inherent in his expression. It, in return, renewed your own curiosity— why the hell were you here? Why hadn’t Kim’s men simply returned you to your tour group, or thrown you in jail?

As you began to contemplate how you might go about asking wihout upsetting Dear Leader’s son, he pulled out yet another cigarette; placed it in his mouth.

“...Could I try one of those, too?” you asked cautiously instead. It had been a few years since you’d smoked a cigarette, but somehow you found yourself wanting one now more than you likely ever had before. 

“You want one of _these?”_ He seemed incredulous. With a hearty laugh, he took out his pack, handed it to you, and said wryly, “Korean women do _not_ smoke.” 

“I’m not exactly from around here,” you said, as you took another sip of that lovely cognac and proceeded to stick your own cigarette into your mouth. You tried to return his expression; tried to seem nonchalant. You were sure you were failing, of course, but it wouldn’t serve you well to panic here and you knew it. Anyway, Kim himself certainly seemed as though he wanted you to relax— hence the drinks, and most probably the smokes too.

You realized, at that point, that the Hennessey was starting to work: You could already feel its warmth washing over you; it had travelled down your throat with impressive smoothness. The sensation with which it imbued you was spreading, and to great effect. 

Kim took a lighter out of his pocket and handed it to you. It was a chrome Zippo, and it was ornately engraved with Korean letters. You presumed them to be initials, but in spite of your fascination with the country, you couldn’t begin to decipher them. You took it from him and lit your smoke; as you did, he said to you, “No— no, you certainly aren’t from ‘around here’, are you?”

You’d meant to say something in return; however, you immediately started to cough. Not only had it been a while since you’d last smoked, but Kim’s cigarettes were _incredibly_ strong. The smoke seemed to hit the back of your throat as if it were one of those trains you’d been so interested in not long ago.

The Marshal, for his part, seemed to think your reaction was absolutely hilarious— he laughed at you once again, and plucked his lighter out of your hand before you had a chance to fumble and drop it. “Enjoy the cigarette,” he said, “but mind my lighter. It is somewhat of an antique, you see.”

Once you’d caught your breath (with the assistance of another sip of that cognac— it really was proving helpful), you asked with a slight rasp, “An antique?”

“Yes,” he said proudly, as he took a long and comfortable drag off of his own smoke and held his lighter up to examine it. “You mentioned my grandfather earlier, didn’t you? Well— this belonged to him.”

It had belonged to Kim Il-sung, the Eternal President? Even you had to admit that was impressive to you. _But,_ as far as you knew, Zippo lighters themselves were as American as apple pie. You must have been visibly confused, because Kim continued, “He took it from a dying Japanese soldier, who had taken it from a dying American soldier during the Second World War. For posterity, he had it engraved. These letters?” He held it closely to your face, then, so that you could see. “These spell his name.”

You’d always been under the impression that the eldest Kim’s valiance during the war had been somewhat exaggerated, but you certainly weren’t about to say anything to that effect. Whether the entire tale was true or not, the history of the lighter the Marshal held in his hand was extremely interesting to you. 

The Hennessey was working its magic well enough that you were able to smile widely; say to Kim with a distinct note of reverence, “That’s amazing. I’m guessing your father gave it to you, then?”

“He did,” confirmed your host, as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “I keep it with me at all times— I like to be reminded of the legacy I’ve been entrusted with upholding.” He sipped his own drink. “It is not an easy job, you know.”

“...No,” you said tentatively. “I don’t suppose it is.” Kim certainly had to be aware of the impression you had of his country; it was an impression almost universally shared by outsiders. Although _his_ life was rather lavish, the lives of most of his people were far from easy. 

“I know what you must be thinking,” he said as he finished off his drink, and put out his spent cigarette in the ashtray on the little table between you. “You are thinking that my life must be very comfortable— but, in spite of my various material comforts, it truly isn’t.” He looked around the room, then, and let out a sigh. “You have to understand that I am an _aspirational_ figure; a symbol of what every Korean’s reality might be, if only they band together and work as hard as they can.” He shook his head. “It is a hardship, really, to have so many of one’s own people looking up to you.”

You thought for a moment; set down your glass. For all the research you’d done on the subject of the DPRK; for all of the books you’d read and documentaries you’d watched, you’d never thought about Kim quite that way. Suddenly, you did remember something— an interview from a documentary you had seen not long ago; it had been with Kim Jong-il’s former sushi chef. He’d apparently bonded with Kim Jong-un when he had been a boy... and he’d seemed to display a level of insight unrivalled by anyone else who could claim to ever have been close to the child who would one day step into his grandfather’s shoes. He’d described the now-grown man sitting in front of you as someone genuinely concerned with his people’s plight.

“You were very young during the Arduous March, weren’t you?” Your question may have been bold, but it was relevant, you thought. The great famine of the 1990’s had been a turning-point in the DPRK’s history. With the fall of the former Soviet Union came a massive reduction in both trade and aid; on top of that, several years of bad weather had combined with poor-quality farmland to create a disaster— starvation and poverty ran rampant, even in cities which had been previously well-off. Millions had died, and those who remained had their faith in the government and its ideology deeply shaken. 

The nation stopped trusting Kim’s father back then, whether distrust had officially been permitted or not. Whispers of rebellion floated about; people were sent to prison camps. Black markets had begun to flourish, undermining the very principles on which the country had been founded. By the early 2010’s, Kim Jong-il— ‘Dear Leader’; son of the revered Eternal President— had died, leaving a very young and gravely inexperienced Kim Jong-un to take his place.

The Marshal, you supposed, was not incorrect: His job, in spite of the luxuries with which it came, could not possibly have been an easy one.

“Yes,” he confirmed for you. “I grew up watching my nation suffer— it instilled in me a desire to build it up once again, so that our society could return to its prior level of greatness.” He finished his drink, placed his glass on the table next to yours, and went on to pour you each another. 

Your cigarette was long finished by now; you’d put it out minutes ago. But, when Kim went to take out a new one for himself, he offered you the pack again. You acquiesced; grabbed one for yourself, and held it between your fingers until he passed you the lighter, too. As you lit it and handed back his grandfather’s precious antique, you said through a haze of smoke, “Everyone I’ve encountered on my visit so far has seemed happy. You must be doing a fine job.” There was plenty of evidence to the contrary, of course, and you didn’t believe in the efficacy of the communist Juche ideology, necessarily— but, it would have done you little good to insult the Marshal’s leadership under these circumstances. 

Anyhow, that cognac really was serving its intended purpose: You almost felt relaxed; relaxed enough, anyway, to have this conversation. You supposed that was just what the young dictator had intended.

“I am doing the best that I can with the tools I have been given,” he said, in a tone of voice which indicated— _perhaps_ — a sliver of self-doubt. After that, though, he looked you directly in the eye. “Have you ever tried to hammer a nail into a wall with a knife?” he asked, and you appreciated his choice of metaphor.

“No,” you answered. “I can’t say that I have.”

“In that case, perhaps you will let me tell you a bit about what that is like— along with what you can do to help.”

‘Help’? What on earth did he mean by that? You were just a silly girl who’d been discovered by chance sneaking around his private train. What could you possibly have done to help the leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea?

You tilted your head as you sipped your drink, enjoyed your next cigarette, and waited for Kim to tell you what sort of purpose his having captured you might serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this makes me crave cigarettes lol.


End file.
